


recede

by besselfcn



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chronic Pain, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: On days like these, the cravings are a physical thing; they start in his teeth.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	recede

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cptsdstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsdstars/gifts).



On days like these, the cravings are a physical thing; they start in his teeth. 

Once, thirty-six hours deep into a delirious pain and hunger and  _ want _ that would not let him sleep, he asked Evelyn what she thought would happen if he pulled them out.  _ Pulled what out _ , she said.  _ Molars _ , he said.  _ Oh _ , she said.  _ I don’t think that’s a good idea _ , she said. 

She’s usually right, so he hadn’t fought it. 

Right now, in any case, he is in no state to pull out his own teeth. He is in no state to do much of anything but curl smaller, reach deeper into the pieces of him that promise him this will pass, even while the fire spreads into his jaw, his throat. 

Evelyn returns from her morning run to find him like this; huddled small, half hidden by an anxious Mabari that whines at her when she walks in. 

“Oh,” she says. She kneels by the bed and brushes the sweat from his eyes, the sticky blonde hair. “Bad day.”

He tries to nod. A high whine escapes his throat instead.

“Very bad day,” Evelyn corrects. “Who shall I ask to come help?”

His tongue aches to say  _ Dorian. _ There is nothing as wonderfully distracting as that bright hurricane of a man; nothing that pulls him out of a spiral of unimaginable hunger quite like hearing him and Evelyn laugh in the kitchen and wanting so desperately to see them both that he will drag himself out of bed for it until the pounding in his head subsides. 

He knows he can’t, though. He knows. On days like this, Dorian’s blood would sing like a tuning fork. 

“Cass,” he rasps. “Please.”

Evelyn puts a hand on his forehead; it is ice cold. “ _ Super _ bad day,” she whispers, and moments later he hears the door click behind her again, off to bother the lady Pentaghast until she agrees to come see them. 

He falls asleep, or near to sleep. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again there is the sound outside of parrying blades. Close, open — a jug of water at his bedside and a note that says  _ Drink. _ in a stern hand. Sunlight streaking through the window, orange with sunset. Two voices shushing him, over a sound that he realizes is his own voice shouting. 

He dreams of Kirkwall. Of Ostwick. Of bright red shards digging into his bones and settling there, and growing. 

When the ache recedes back into his jaw, he finds himself standing in the foyer, and Cassandra is polishing a sword on his dining room table.

“We eat there,” he says lamely.

“Lately,” Cassandra says, “you have been eating in bed, spoonfed like a child.”

He pretends to scowl.

She sets the sword at her side. “But if you are feeling better,” she says, “I suppose I can move elsewhere.”

He pulls her into a hug, and he knows she was worried for him — she returns it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me places @besselfcn!


End file.
